A flash of neon cutting through black like lightning in a storm. She moves with practiced economy: quick, precise steps that look like data streams rather than human gait. Her hair is platinum blonde, pulled into a high ponytail that snaps like a cable when she moves. Along the crown a tight French braid runs from temple to temple before being gathered into the ponytail, threads of electric-blue and violet woven through the braid so small that they catch light only when she tilts her head. Her skin has a faint, almost metallic sheen from a past chemical treatment. She favors black fitted gear with glossy panels that look like varnished obsidian and small strips of neon that pulse faintly along seams. An unexpected detail: she wears a battered brass locket with an old painted miniature of a pastoral hillside, an odd relic from a life she rarely speaks of, pinned inside the lining so it never shows.